


firelight and starlight

by sospes



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected orgy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	firelight and starlight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on _The Hobbit_ kink meme on LJ.

It takes them most of the day to clamber down that mess of crags and spars the eagles chose to leave them on: Thorin limps and spits blood, despite Gandalf’s wizardry, and even Bilbo’s hobbit-hardy feet are tired and cramping. When they finally reach the ground, Bombur tumbling the last few feet in a wordlessly weary protest at the cruelties of the world, the sky is a burning orange and the Lonely Mountain is lost in encroaching night. Thorin grips the rock at his back and says, “We’ll make camp here tonight.” 

Bofur ferrets out a sheltered hideaway among the jagged maze at the crag’s base and Gloin produces a battered tinderbox from somewhere deep within his clothes: how it survived the goblins’ searching no one’s quite sure, but when Ori and Nori have scrounged enough wood the flames dance merrily, casting distorted shadows against the rocks that loom overhead. Gandalf’s eyes are bright beneath the shadow of his hat. 

The night is that of late summer, one warm and just touched by the breeze. The dwarves tuck themselves into corners, some to sleep, some to talk softly, some to sit and watch the stars. Bofur tootles on his pipe, another miraculous survivor of the goblins’ greedy fingers. 

Bilbo brushes his thumb across the outline of the golden ring tucked away in his pocket, and his stomach grumbles loudly. He reflects that running from goblins and escaping from wargs is all well and good, but it doesn’t exactly put food in your belly – and Bifur, poking the fire with a smouldering stick, nods and mutters something in angry Dwarfish. 

Dwalin sniffs at that, and says, “No point in moaning about it. We cannae go any further tonight, and I’m not too keen to try the rocks.” He’s hunched over himself, brow furrowed and lips twisted in the depths of his beard, but there’s gentleness to his gruff words: he claps Bifur on the shoulder in that rough-and-tumble way the dwarves have with each other, and his hand lingers. They’ve not exactly had an easy few days, and how they’ve got away quite this lightly Bilbo’s not entirely sure – although he still misses Myrtle, and hopes she escaped to green pastures and bubbling brooks. His stomach grumbles again, and he pushes thought of his pantry aside. It’d only get burgled again, anyway, with this many hungry dwarves around. 

Bilbo gets to his feet, cracks his back. The rocks are cool beneath his toes, and if he squints upwards he can see the moon, round and shiny as a silver penny. He takes three steps forward, then two back, feeling tiredness ache through his legs – and he remembers the sight of forests and rivers, stretching out ahead of them for miles and miles, because the Lonely Mountain is still so far away and they are still so very lost in the wilderness. He swallows, then scrubs at his tired eyes. He’s so far from home. 

Bilbo slips quietly away from the fire and into the shadowy rocks that snake around them. Balin notices him go and offers him a nod, but the others are tired, so tired, and the night might be warm but it’s still so very dark. The shadows close around him, still and calm, and the hammering of his heart slows, only slightly: the world beyond his door is terrifying, dangerous, and (right now, quite literally) very dark. He leans back against the rocks and thinks of Thorin’s acceptance and the wry smile on Gandalf’s lips. 

Someone’s whispering up ahead. 

For a second, Bilbo tenses, scrabbles for his sword – but then he pauses, relaxes, because it’s not the rasping gargle of that creature he riddled with under the mountains, no, it’s something warm and gentle and oh so very intimate. He gets the distinct feeling that it’s something he shouldn’t be hearing, but Tookishness swells up in his chest and he pads forward, silent as a hobbit can be. The firelight is a nothing but a memory, here in the darkness between the rocks, but the moon affords enough light for Bilbo to see: he’s in a deep, winding passageway, twisting and turning as sharply as the mountain tunnels that claimed his waistcoat buttons, but when he peers around the corner just ahead he finds a chamber of sorts, half-roofed by an overhanging slab and with a floor smoothed by year after year of rain. Starlight seeps in from above, glimmering on the intricate scrollwork on Thorin’s belt buckle. 

Fili’s hands are woven through his brother’s hair. His eyes are closed and his lips gape wide: his coat and jacket are discarded, forming a kind of blanket beneath him, while his shirt is spread open and his trousers are shoved around his ankles. He’s the one doing the whispering, low and dark and pleading, and Bilbo doesn’t have to hear his words to understand the need in his voice. Kili is naked except for his boots, sprawled out between his brother’s legs like a cat before a warm hearth: his languor is an insolent counterpoint to the tension that thrums in Fili’s muscles. 

“Oh,” Bilbo finds himself saying. “Sorry.” It’s louder than he intended (not that there was much intention in the first place) and Kili pauses, looks up, looks away: his hair is in his eyes and his lips are bruised and swollen in the starlight. Fili groans in protest, a wordless noise that’s more animal than anything else: Kili offers Bilbo a wicked smile, and lets himself be dragged back to the task at hand. 

“Mr Baggins,” Thorin says, and Bilbo is jolted away from the way Fili groans his brother’s name with an intimacy that’s almost too private to bear. Thorin’s eyes are smiling, even if his lips are set in their customary iron line, and he touches Bilbo’s cheek, fingers worn and callused. 

“I don’t—” Bilbo starts, and has no idea how that sentence was supposed to end. Thorin’s thud skids across his lips: he sucks in a sharp breath, can’t help himself breathing Thorin’s name and a quiet, mewling _please_. 

Thorin’s eyes smile wider. He kisses Bilbo, and his hands fit around his shoulders and draw him closer. He’s almost too warm to bear, and when Thorin’s fingers flit to the few remaining buttons of his waistcoat any respectable hobbit would be ashamed at how quickly Bilbo mumbles “Yes!” against his lips and tugs on his braids to pull him closer. It won’t occur to Bilbo that he’s wrapped around Thorin, son of Thrain, Oakenshield and King Under the Mountain until later, because the owner of that fancy name and heavy legacy has a way with buttons and lacings and fastenings that makes them just melt away. 

Warm hands fit themselves around Bilbo’s hips as Thorin is pulling his own shirt over his head, and Bilbo suddenly finds himself spun around and with Bofur’s laughing lips almost violent against his own: he likes to think that he gives as good as he gets, but then Thorin’s hands are on his chest and sliding southwards – and oh, when did he end up naked? He whimpers against Bofur’s teeth, and the dwarf laughs, his flap-eared hat lopsided on his head. He shines Bilbo that familiar happy smile, then he’s on his knees and now it’s Thorin’s hands _and_ Bofur’s tongue, and Bilbo’s head falls back against Thorin’s shoulder in a gesture that’s probably more joy than astonishment. 

Thorin’s breath is heavy and measured in his ear. When Bilbo whimpers, he laughs, bell-like. 

Bilbo’s trying not to think about what’s happening to him—more because he doesn’t want everything to end far too soon, if he’s honest, than any sense of Baggins propriety—but the world doesn’t seem to be in the mood to help him out. If he doesn’t think about Thorin, he thinks about Bofur, and if he forces himself to concentrate on something else entirely, well, his gaze wanders across the chamber and that’s not helpful at all, because Fili’s on his hands and knees with Dwalin’s tattooed hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, jerking him helplessly with every thrust, and his moans are swallowed by his brother’s tongue. Kili touches himself as he kisses his brother, still sprawled across the same cool stone Bilbo can feel beneath his feet. 

Bilbo takes one look at that tableau and feels himself come apart. Everything’s a bit blurry for a while. 

When his head stops whirling, he’s curled up in a shadowy corner with his clothes pillowed under his head and the chamber is filled with dwarves. Bofur is holding court, it seems, deep inside Gloin with his tongue down Balin’s throat, but Bombur is a close second, one hand knotted in Nori’s hair and the other dragging Dori’s shirt over his head. In stark contrast, Bifur and Ori are mostly clothed, and there’s a bizarre tenderness in the way they’re kissing: Ori’s hands are hidden in Bifur’s beard and Bifur seems almost relaxed. From time to time, Ori giggles, almost, and a few paces away from them Dwalin and Oin lie lax across one another. There are angry red scratches across Dwalin’s shoulders – and then Bilbo forgets Bombur’s rumbling happiness, because deep in the shadows he can almost make out Thorin’s beard and Gandalf’s hat, tumbled up together in the darkness where they can’t be seen. 

Bilbo’s head is spinning. 

He dresses quickly, quietly, even though he could’ve probably sewn himself a three piece suit before any of them noticed, and slips away. The moon is dimmer, now, clouds scudding across its smiling face, and Bilbo sees the glow of the fire ahead down that narrow, winding passage. 

When he steps back into the firelight, Fili is stirring the embers into life, the sparks glinting in his blond beard. He looks up, and his eyes are warm. “Bilbo,” he says, and then, “How’re you feeling?”

Bilbo’s not quite sure how to respond to that. “Quite alright, thank you,” he says automatically, and sits down heavily beside the fire. The air is cooler, now, and Fili’s smile turns a little wry. Bilbo swallows, says, “Actually—”, then stops again. He stares hard at the fire, and finally says, “That was unexpected.”

“Not in your contract?” Fili asks, and shoves a thick, leafy branch onto the fire. 

“Not quite the laceration and incineration I was expecting, no,” Bilbo answers, and finds himself staring at a braid just above Fili’s left ear that’s half-unravelled. His cheeks are warm, and it’s not just from the fire. “Not that I’m complaining,” he hastens to add, and tugs at the hem of his waistcoat.

Fili laughs quietly. “No,” he answers, “I noticed.” 

That doesn’t exactly help Bilbo’s blush, and he looks away from Fili’s gaping smile. In the glare of the fire the stars are hidden, and Bilbo suddenly notices Kili, fast asleep at his brother’s side and wearing slightly more than just his boots. He looks peaceful, and Bilbo’s surprised to find that, if thinks about it, the goblins and the wargs and the orcs and the slimy underground monsters aren’t quite so scary anymore. 

“Why are you—” It’s another case of Bilbo’s mouth acting before his brain, and he cuts himself off sharply. He’s fairly sure his face is now the colour of the fire. 

Fili looks up. “Go on,” he says, and there’s amusement in his eyes. 

Bilbo ahems, pushes a twig deeper into the fire’s heart, and awkwardly says, “Why are you here? I mean, why aren’t you still with the others?” 

Fili studies him for a moment, and then a smile splits his lips, broad and warm and welcoming. He brushes dirt off his fingers and smoothes his hand across his brother’s head, slow and careful. Bilbo doesn’t like to use the word ‘love’, but there’s something quiet and intimate and safe about that gesture, something that twists something in his belly and makes him want to look away. “He doesn’t like anyone other than me to finish him off,” Fili answers, “and he doesn’t like me to do it in public.” Kili sleeps on, undisturbed, and Fili glances back across the fire to Bilbo, his fingers twined into his brother’s hair. “Besides,” he says, finally, “someone has to watch the fire.” 

Bilbo thinks about home, about his home and their lack of one. He watches Fili watch over his brother, and something suddenly blossoms in his heart, blossoms and spreads and tingles to the tips of his fingers, because he’s not one of them, not really, he’s not bound by blood and honour and love, but they’ve let him in nonetheless, let him in to their darkest, emptiest moments – because Bombur might laugh that rumbling laugh and Ori might giggle into the starry darkness, but they’re forever on the edge of the wild and the edge of death. They catch respite when they can, because they have no home but each other. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo says suddenly, abruptly, and keeps his eyes on the fire. 

Fili watches him across the flames, but he doesn’t speak, just leans back against the rocks and keeps one hand on his brother’s back.


End file.
